


Storge

by archeolatry



Series: Three Things Remain [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: But he's trying, Castiel and Dean Winchester Get Married, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Gen, Guinea Pig Owner Castiel (Supernatural), Human Castiel (Supernatural), I Will Go Down With This Ship, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Will kick you out of ketosis, Will make your pancreas ache, You Have Been Warned, castiel has a garden, happiest of happy endings, there may be tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:35:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28970694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeolatry/pseuds/archeolatry
Summary: Storge(STOR-jay): natural affection; can apply between family members, friends, companions or colleagues. It can also blend with and help underpin other types of ties such as passionate love or friendship.------Dean and Cas get married. Lots of their friends are there.98% fluff, 1% nerves, 1% existential angst.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy & Sam Winchester
Series: Three Things Remain [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/773331
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Storge

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this literally like three years ago. I had wanted another ‘type’ of love as a story to bridge the gap between this and [“Eros”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17490773) but it never actually materialized. Then I figured I’d sit on this until the show ended to make sure I didn’t Joss myself. (Not realizing, of course, that the show would end in a complete tire fire). And I figure we need some tooth-rotting fluff on Dean's Birthday of all days.
> 
> (And if you’re like _“WTF is this? Why does Dean think Chuck could possibly be nice? Where the hell is ____?”_ this is the epilogue to a series I wrote called [“Three Things Remain”](https://archiveofourown.org/series/773331). Enjoy this work as-is, or read from the beginning.)

It started with the flowers.

Dean had—with much fluster and blushing—presented Cas a bouquet from a roadside vendor: a spray of roses and daisies and tiny purple flowers. Cas accepted them gratefully and with a kiss, though Dean couldn’t help notice a certain sadness is Cas’ eyes whenever he looked at them. Finally Castiel explained that while they were beautiful, they were also dead. And yes, that was really what the ultimate purpose of flowers, but...

The next time, Dean brought him a little pot of cornflowers from a small-town nursery. “The lady said bees like ‘em,” Dean explained, leaving out the fact that their brilliant blue reminded him of Castiel’s eyes. 

Cas cared for the little plant as best he could in the sunless bunker, but eventually moved it to a small patch of dirt a few hundred yards away from the Bunker’s entrance. Lavender, poppies, and dog roses followed, all of which blossomed and grew under Cas’ care. And, as promised, the bees liked them. So together they built a hive, and had enough honey to share by summer.

The next year, Dean bought a young apple tree, and a few pots of herbs. Then tomatoes. Then some onions. Then some potatoes. Then melons and a peach tree. And no matter what he threw at Cas, he made it grow. Dean suspected that maybe just a touch of his former grace still flowed through Castiel, the way the plants just sprouted and thrived and yielded so much. But no. It was simply love and care. Maybe bees just made more honey when you talked to them.

  


Some three years later, Dean gathered their chosen family for a barbecue. Sam, of course, had to remind everyone that there was a wedding happening as well, and that Dean—being Dean— didn’t want to make a fuss about it. Castiel, for his part, was just happy to see their friends in one place without having to hunt or kill something as the reason. 

‘Boyfriend’ wouldn’t cut it. Not after forty. He’d referred to Sam as his partner too many times to be completely at ease with the term. ‘Significant Other’ was too obtuse. Cas called him ‘my beloved’ outside their bedroom _once_ , and Dean blushed strawberry red under his freckles. Jody suggested ‘beau’, but Dean quickly reminded her that he was not a Southern belle. And, frankly, none of them implied permanence like ‘husband’. They hunted, shared clothes, shopped for groceries together—hell, they had two guinea pigs and were considering chickens—and that pretty much leveled them up to husbands.

Maybe it didn’t matter if two technically dead guys were married or not. And, yeah, maybe Chuck didn’t particularly care either way if humans said some words and then ate cake before shacking up. It was the _principle_ of the thing, Dean insisted, and if he was gonna call Cas his husband he was damn well gonna say some words in front of his family first. 

Cas’ one good ID said Winchester anyway. 

They wouldn’t bother with aisles and suits, they decided. They’d just wear their FBI uniforms (with a new shirt more flattering to Dean’s softening middle), and shoes that could handle a bit of dirt. One online form later, and Jody was minister enough to officiate.

Everything had been decided on—except the words.

Castiel wanted to write his own vows, which was fine with Dean. But that meant he’d have to write _his_ own, too—a prospect that frankly left him a little anxious. Between mixtapes and morning cuddles, he’d said every damn sappy thing that had ever crossed his mind; none of it was really meant for an audience though. And what do you say about the guy who _literally_ pulled you out of Hell?

Dean instead applied this anxiety —the fidgety energy, the need to procrastinate— to making pies. Plural. Several dozen individual-sized pies, in fact; pecan, apple, and peach, each in its own tiny tin. He made pies until the freezer couldn’t fit any more. By the time the big day rolled around he had dozens of pies, hand-made burgers, and all the barbecue trimmings waiting. Forks, plates, napkins, everything—except his vows. 

They didn’t bother much with decorations or flowers on the day. The garden itself was fine and green, and some cuttings in bottles spruced up the salvaged picnic tables; an effortlessly cozy, rustic look free of pretense. _Take that, Pinterest,_ Dean thought. 

There were only some scattered chairs and benches for seating. There was no altar, but a side table from a spare bedroom draped with a white cloth, with photos of familiar faces—Jo, Ellen, Kevin, and so on—and a shot of whiskey left in offering. And while a 30-year-old bottle of Glencraig was out of their reach, Dean did secretly pour out a shot of Johnnie Walker Blue into the dirt before refilling the glass again.

Their grand processional was over a boombox. “Over the Hills and Far Away”, with Sam’s fingers on the volume knob moving deliberately and delicately as a surgeon’s to fade from the 40-second mark.

Jody read from one of Cas’ books of poems (Mary Oliver, whom he had taken a particular shine to). _“I imagine us rising from a speeding car—”_

Tears tugged at Dean’s eyes. He had no poetry for Cas. Nothing so beautiful as he deserved.

_“And what we see is a world that cannot cherish us—”_

Sam would have helped if he’d asked, right? And with only a gentle, brotherly ribbing for the trouble? Found him some readings, or some song lyrics? (Could he just recite “Thank You”?)

Jody’s smile was watery, and her voice quavered as she announced the couple had written their own vows. She deferred to Castiel with a nod, and he began. 

“My beloved…”

Dean didn’t hear half of it. His heart was beating in his ears and his palms were sweating and thank Chuck that someone was recording this because he wasn’t going to remember any of it. He was already a crappy husband and they weren’t even officially married yet. 

“…I promise to protect you…”

He didn’t deserve Cas. Never did. Especially not Human Cas, who was still full-badass with a knife even if he needed to be patched up after. Who made him tomato rice soup when he was sick. Who cared for and nurtured this stupid little patch of dirt into a goddamn bumper crop of peaches. 

“…until the end of my days.”

A chorus of sniffles and quiet sobs came from their guests. Sam’s eyes were red-rimmed and leaking as he stuttered out the last few signs to a barely-contained Eileen.

He turned his head and locked eyes with Castiel’s, all holy blue and full of goodness, waiting patiently for his words. The words he should have for the man who meant more to him than his whole life. 

Never in his life was he as scared as he was in that moment. Their bodies knew the rhythm of battle, of love; of words unspoken but meanings made in glances. Dean Winchester could think on his feet and hatch plans in seconds between life and death, but could only look at his husband in shame and fear.

His gaze fell to his shoes. 

Long seconds passed. The breeze sussured the fruit trees, bringing a dull blossom scent to his running nose. 

In that quiet, he found his inspiration.

He knelt into the dirt, taking a handful of rich Kansas earth from one of the flower beds. Upon standing, he took Castiel’s hand in his, turning it and placing the soil into Castiel’s open palm.

“This is me before I met you. Dirt. Good for nothin’. Full of rocks, and crap, and dead things. Nobody wants it even if it’s free.” He brushed it off his hands. “And this—” He gestured to the blooming garden, to the ripe vegetables, to the fat green apples still growing on the tree, before fixing a tearful gaze at his husband. “This is what you do with it. This is what _**you make**_...out of dirt.” 

Cas swallowed his protests. He knew Dean well enough to know that they would do little good. Instead, he ringed his arms around his husband’s neck and pulled him close, still clutching the little handful of soil. Dean wrapped both arms tightly around him, burying his face in the shorter man’s shoulder with an audibly wet sniffle. Dean tilted his head in to whisper in Cas’ ear, to him and him alone: “I love you so much, Castiel. More than anybody in the whole damn world.” 

After that, it was decided, there was nothing left to say but the ‘I Do’s.

There was no small swell of pride as Dean watched the party from over his grill. He’d shucked his stiff collar and jacket, and now resembled his guests in a white (save for the mustard stain) undershirt. His bottle of Margiekugel was growing tepid from proximity to the heat. 

They’d already gone through two-dozen burger patties. The honeyed lavender lemonade—which he’d worried was too froofy—was drunk in no time, with compliments at every glass. Plenty of ice cold beer in the cooler. They seemed to be running low on watermelon, but hell, they could just pick one, wash it off and slice it up. Just like that. 

Sam’s eldest, Jo-Ellen, was already skinny and long-limbed like her dad; her and Garth’s boys shrieked and laughed as they played tag. Bobby was a tiny, wiggly mass in Eileen’s arms. Claire and Kaia were stuck shoulder to shoulder, while Donna and Doug were practically attached at the hip; she ran a protective hand over her belly every few minutes. 

Dean drank in the sight. For at least this one day, everything was sunny and peaceful. A day without monsters. And he wondered to himself if this wasn’t a wedding gift from Chuck. He knew how arrogant it sounded, thinking that God himself had given them one perfect day. But when your husband used to work for the man upstairs, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility… 

“Shove over. You’re burning those poor burgers,” Sam said, jabbing Dean in the side and breaking his reverie.

“There’s a fine line between ‘perfection’ and ‘still mooing’, Sammy,” he scolded. “Some of us like to _cook_ our meat.”

Sam leaned in for a stage whisper. “Dean. It’s your _wedding_.” He nudged his head towards Castiel, who was taking in the party from a bench, lemonade in hand. “Go.” 

He handed Sam the spatula. “Medium, okay? Just a _little_ pink.” 

“Go!” Sam barked.

“Hey, handsome. You on the groom’s side or the groom’s side?” 

Castiel smiled indulgently at Dean. Beatifically, even.

“Whatcha doing way over here?”

“Just…observing,” Cas said wistfully. “It’s a beautiful afternoon. Everyone is happy.” He efflared a tiny laugh. “Our niece is playing with werewolves...”

Dean leaned over to retrieve the cup by Castiel’s feet. “Bet you never thought that was comin’.” He shook his head. “I sure as hell didn’t.”

“Our daughter is engaged…”

“Didn’t see that one coming either. The settling part, I mean.” Dean raised Castiel’s cup, taking a long, savory sip. He smacked his lips at the tang of vodka and frowned. “Since when do you Irish up your lemonade?”

“It’s refreshing, in small amounts,” Castiel said. “It contrasts the sweetness nicely.” 

Dean conceded with a nod, and set the cup back down.

“Seriously, Cas- you okay?”

Castiel shushed him faintly, not meeting his eyes.

He watched Cas watch the party. Watched Patience scrunching up her nose, hiding her face in her palm as she mangled a sign; as Eileen corrected her slowly, with fingers splayed. Jesse burped Bobby against his shoulder, rocking and cooing, as Cesar patted his tiny head. Garth and Bess stood by the makeshift memorial; from the placement of his finger, he must have been talking about Mary. 

“My favorite Heaven,” Castiel offered, “was that of an autistic man who drowned in a bathtub in 1953. It was a Tuesday of absolutely no consequence. He had his favorite lunch, and then flew his kite. It was peaceful there. And warm. And he was happy.” He wrapped Dean’s hand in both of his. “I think this would be my Heaven.”

“Cas, don’t think about death right now, okay?” Dean’s voice was raw. “It’s supposed to be a good day.”

“It is a good day,” he countered patiently, squeezing Dean’s hand. “I have my family and my beloved. It’s peaceful and warm, and I’m happy.”

And in an instant, Dean understood. This is what Castiel had done for ages. For eons. He watched the cycle of births and deaths and the long stretch of humanity between. Each life spiraled at its own pace; catching on new ones, releasing others. That of all the gatherings, of all the meetings of great and renowned minds of history, from Plato’s lectures to Woodstock…that he should be happiest here. 

Dean squeezed back. “Me too.”

He put his head on his husband’s — _husband’s!_ —shoulder and twining their fingers together. Castiel rested his head against Dean’s.

A glint of sunlight drew his attention to their rings. Castiel’s was of beaten gold, while his shone bright and silvery: titanium supporting a band of meteorite. Heaven and Earth, meeting hand to hand. 

“Uncle Dean, Uncle Cas!” Jo-Ellen bounded up to the bench. “Is it time to feed the piggies?”

Castiel eyed Dean’s watch. “Almost. And I think they’d enjoy some watermelon rind.” He grinned conspiratorially at the girl. “Would you like to give them a treat?”

“Yeah!” she exclaimed, hopping on her tiptoes. 

Cas glanced at Dean. “It seems we’re going to feed the piggies.” Dean chuckled; to hear his ‘angel of the lord’ voice over those words…

Jo-Ellen threw her arms around Cas’ neck. “Carry meee!”

Cas stood up with a barely audible grunt. His knees, however, were quite vocal. He adjusted her against his hip, supporting her bottom with one arm—barely.

“You’re getting so big!” he said, straining slightly at the effort. “Soon you’ll be too big to carry.” 

Jo-Ellen ignored this remark. “Has Marshmallow had her babies yet?”

“Not yet,” he said patiently, for the tenth time.

“When she does, can I have one?”

“We’ll have to ask your mommy and daddy. They may not let you have two.” He bucked, shifting her weight. “It’s best two have two guinea pigs that live together, like Marshmallow and Percy do. Otherwise they get lonely.”

She glanced warily between Cas and Dean, wearing an expression that she inherited from Sam. She looked pointedly at Dean. “Is that true?”

“One-hundred percent, Honeybee.”

Her expression remained unchanged. “Last time you told me that fairies were one hundred percent real and that Uncle Cas used to be an _angel_ and that’s not true either.”

“Is too. All of it.”

Jo-Ellen rolled her eyes. “You’re weird, Uncle Dean.”

Dean smiled. At her age, he was learning how to field-strip a .45. And maybe, someday, he would teach her. Today was not that day. Nor was tomorrow. He hoped it would not come for years, if ever.

“I need to check on the pies anyway.” He patted her foot, then stood to place a kiss Cas’ temple. “Go feed your piggies.”

Castiel caught Dean’s eye and they met again for a quick peck. Then once more—a little softer, a little slower the second time. Dean leaned in for a third when Castiel cleared his throat, nudging his head towards Jo-Ellen. He mouthed the word _‘Later’_ and winked.

“Piggies!” Jo-Ellen shouted. She then tacked on an urgent “Pleeeaassee?”

“Thank you for using your words,” Cas said, smiling, with the true patience of an angel. “Yes, we can go feed them now.” He cast a look at his husband over his shoulder. “Don’t drink my lemonade while I’m gone.”

Dean grinned, wide and bright. “No promises, Cas.”

Castiel took off towards their pen, Jo-Ellen practically bouncing in his arms. “How many babies is she gonna have?”

“I don’t know. We’re going to have to wait and see.”

In the golden glow of the afternoon, Dean watched his Honeybee and his Sunshine go together, unarmed and unafraid, walking towards home. 

**Author's Note:**

> Not dead, still banging away at "[Ad Meliora"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23339512) despite the fact that it looks abandoned by the side of the road. Creativity is hard, y'all.


End file.
